Skin Deep
by Pinkjimmychoos
Summary: Things have changed since the end of the war, not least Lavender Brown as Oliver Wood finds out after he undergoes an unexpected career change. A healthy amount of fluff, a dollop of angst and cameos from Ron, Hermione, George and more. Read and see! WIP
1. Prologue

**Skin Deep**

**Summary: **Many things have changed since the end of the war- not least Lavender Brown, as Oliver Wood finds out after he undergoes an unexpected career change. OW/LB. A healthy dose of fluff, a large dollop of angst and cameo's from several other HP characters including George, Ron, Hermione and Angelina. Read it and see! Post DH.

**Rating: **T

**Disclaimers: **The characters aren't mine. They're lucky enough to belong to JK Rowling; I just like to play with them now and again.

**AN:** It's been a while since I've posted on here but I've just bought my first house with my boyfriend and have been really busy as of late, decorating and whatnot.

Anyhoo…This ship is somewhat unconventional and one I've never tried, but sometimes it's more fun that way! On the plus side, the majority of this is already written so expect fairly frequent updates. I've posted the prologue and chapter one here for you and thanks for reading!

**Prologue**

**That little thing called irony**

"The prognosis really isn't good, mate…" the Physio-healer set down his diagnostic wand and regarded the burly man sat silently before him on the metal gurney with a grim expression; "this is the fourth time in as many month's that ankle's shattered. I _told_ you not to play before the bones had fully knitted properly..."

Oliver Wood's expression was grave even as his face paled and he rolled back down the bottom of his prized Puddlemere robes, feebly flexing his recently treated right foot. "I know but---"

The healer shook his head sombrely not listening to the protestations as he efficiently snapped off his rubber medical gloves, "...not to mention the injuries inflicted on your shoulder," he stated brusquely. "_Again_." His voice contained an element of chagrin.

Oliver was still in some pain, despite the careful treatment already administered today and was not in the mood for anymore bloody 'I told you so's.' "I know but---" he began again but was cut off mid-sentence.

"No more 'buts' Oliver, I'm sorry," the healers voice was firm but most annoyingly of all, sympathetic and Oliver sensed even before he heard it what was coming next, "I'd be going against every law in my profession if I was to ever let you get back on that broom in the state you're in."

Oliver's stomach lurched sickeningly as he blinked; "you mean…?"

"It's all over Oliver, I'm sorry." Regretfully, the healer placed his wand back in its wrist holster and took a step backwards, setting down his medical chart with a pained sigh; "you're going to have a pronounced limp and the damage re-sustained to the muscles in your shoulder is most likely irreversible. In all honesty, it would be a miracle if you were ever to play Quidditch again."

Dazed, all Oliver could do was gaze at him incomprehensibly, hoping against all futile hope that this was just some kind of bad dream.

**…**

Three days later, Oliver was still coming to terms with the fact that his beloved Quidditch career was completely down the pan. He'd not eaten or slept and had spent the past seventy-two hours alternating between drunken stupor (fire whiskey was certainly a blessing in these troubled times), hot destructive rages (his flat would most likely never be the same again) and most embarrassingly of all, crying (which he did in the privacy of his bedroom in case anybody unexpectedly stopped by- which they hadn't, yet. Not even his former teammates had enquired after his welfare. Bastards.). The news had made the front page of The Prophet of course, after all Wood wasn't only a quidditch superstar, he was a war hero too- but he just didn't want to hear from any well-wishers or sympathisers as he tried valiantly to come to terms with what was happening to him.

He'd fully firmed up the wards around his home and blocked the floo in case any ardent fans 'stalkers' tried to contact him (which they hadn't- yet), or, worse case scenario, his _parents_ decided to drop by. He wasn't in the mood for sympathetic platitudes from his mother or his father's bellowed commands of _'pull yourself together, boy!'_ They'd owled him several times already since his spectacular fall from his broom, which he'd so far ignored. They'd get the message eventually: he just didn't want to talk. To anybody.

He was ignoring everybody who _did_ try to get in touch with him as a matter of fact, though unfortunately it wasn't many people- mostly nosy journalists, and suffice to say, the flat was full of owl droppings, unpleasant little gifts from the disgruntled birds that he'd point blank refused to acknowledge with owl treats as they'd dropped off countless letters or enquiries for him. Oliver didn't even have the energy to charm them away anymore, but the smell wasn't so unbearable once you got used to it. It was just like the Owlery back at Hogwarts after all.

He sighed gloomily as he buried his face in his hands now. He'd actually been expecting for the Physio-healer to say he'd be out for the rest of the season, but for the bloke to actually turn around and say he was out of the sport together was absolutely _unbelievable_. He fully still expected to wake up and find it was all a bad dream- or rather a nightmare.

Fair enough, Oliver knew he'd taken stupid risks, playing when an injury wasn't fully healed on many occasions, but he _was_ pushing thirty after all and he didn't want to lose his coveted place on the first team to some bright young thing heading up the ranks from the Puddlemere reserves. Ironically enough that was how he'd gotten HIS place on the first team way back when- taking full advantage of another team mate's injury, jumping literally into his still-warm boots and the memory stung him now. Karma this was. Definitely very bad karma.

Oliver had virtually lived and breathed the game of Quidditch since he was a young boy which was what made this entire situation so horrific. He felt like he'd lost part of his very soul for he didn't know how to do anything else _but_ play Quidditch.

It was in his blood.

Growing up as the youngest of three boys in a rough and tumble wizarding household, he was only seven when he discovered the sport which would soon become his whole life. It was also fortunate that it was the one wizarding sport his brothers did _not_ excel at- fortunate in that he could actually beat them at something for a change and that they didn't make fun of him for once; however it was _unfortunate _that in doing so he would also soon become the sole focus of his father's single-minded determination for him to become a champion, for Alexander Wood had once been a beater for the Falmouth Falcons until his wife and kids had came along. He'd lived his career vicariously through his youngest son instead. Pushy parents? Oliver knew all about them. His father could have won awards for it ironically enough. Yet similarly, he didn't push his dad away either- glad to have his attention for a change.

It was also unfortunate in that being so focused on Quidditch, Oliver had let so many other things slide in his life however: academics, relationships, friends… The friends he _had_ had at one point or another in his life were now long gone, despaired and frustrated both by his blind-sided drive and sheer determination for the sport, and Oliver was smart enough to realise that those witches and wizards who idolised him for his tactics on the broom were fickle and certainly wouldn't stick around now that he wasn't going to play for Puddlemere United or for the England team any more. Adulation certainly couldn't be confused with friendship after all. Nor could meaningless sex, the meaningless sex he'd freely indulged in whilst he'd been famous, ever be classed as real love.

Yes, "fans" were one thing; friends were certainly another and were something that Oliver Wood was sorely lacking in at the moment and the realisation stung him, hitting him harder than a bludger. Harder in fact than the wayward bludger that had unseated him from his broom whilst he'd made what was undoubtedly the most triumphant save of his career… funny the way irony worked sometimes, wasn't it?

Oliver took another bitter drag of fire-whiskey and slumped back onto his settee, running a hand through his dark hair, feeling both despaired and lost. Here he was: twenty-eight years old, former world-class Quidditch superstar idolised by millions of witches and wizards the world over and he didn't have a fucking clue what to do with the rest of his screwed up life and worst of all, not one single friend to help him decide either.

**HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP**

**A/N: **Just cos' I'm nice, I've posted chapter one at the same time as this. Please read on! :)


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

**A ****bit of a has-been**

**Disclaimers: **See prologue

**HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP**

George Weasley did a double-take the day he walked past the Leaky Cauldron and saw Oliver Wood slumped despondently over its battered wooden bar, looking completely miserable and like he didn't have a single friend in the entire world. His robes were dishevelled, creased and hanging limply from his usually burly frame, his dark hair was unkempt and George was sure that even from here, he could see the other mans fingers trembling as they clutched the dirty glass he held before him as he took a long, desperate gulp of the murky liquid within.

A pang of sympathy welled in the Weasley and he nudged his wife discretely as she peered into the window display of Madame Malkins, "it's Wood," he muttered in a low voice, his nose wrinkling in consternation.

Angelina lifted her head and followed his eyeline, her own eyes immediately darkening in dismay at the sorry sight before her. "Oh…" her voice was dismayed as she stood shock-still.

_So much for discretion_, George thought wryly, ignoring the witches and wizards that tutted and huffed as they scurried around them in busy Diagon Alley.

"Looks in a pretty sorry state, doesn't he?" George's voice contained as much dismay as his wife's did, taking in Wood's haggard form appraisingly. The bloke had lost weight- understandable really, given what George had read about him recently in the 'font of all wizarding knowledge,' The Daily Prophet. He knew the bloke's career was down the toilet now and given that Wood had lived and breathed the game of Quidditch for so long, it was clear from looking at his sorry state now just how hard the unfortunate career-ending injury had hit him.

George was more than familiar with Wood's determination and dedication to Quidditch- he'd played on the Hogwarts team with him back in the day after all. It had been a standing team joke back then, particularly between George and his late twin brother, Fred, just how single-minded the bloke could be about the sport and most certainly his enthusiasm for the game knew no bounds, despite what anyone else thought.

Often, revered lie-ins at weekends for the rest of the team had been sacrificed, just so Wood could get in another gruelling practice, come rain come shine. Arduous evening practices long into dusk had also been common-place with the team circling their brooms until the cover of darkness had prevented further play and even then Oliver had encouraged them to huddle around blackboards, absorbing strategy after strategy until they were too tired to see anymore.

Yes, Oliver Wood had definitely been something of a Quidditch tyrant, much as many in Gryffindor had admired his staunch dedication in winning them the school's Quidditch cup which had been Wood's longest held 'scholarly' ambition.

Saying that though, George grinned in reminiscence: his _wife_ had been the Gryffindor captain the year Wood had left, and she too had been somewhat maniacal about the sport. Perhaps ambition was just a trait of captains.

_Good bloke though Wood was_, George realised now with a frown rubbing his chin, and _despite_ his immense dedication to the sport, he'd forgotten it all in an instant to head back to the school for the notorious Battle of Hogwarts. He along with many other former students had stood against Voldermort and had helped bury the dead that day, including George's very own twin brother- for above everything else, Wood was loyal, both to his house and his school. Staring at him now, at the sorry figure he'd become slumped in the dingy pub like this, was mind-boggling.

Like she was reading his mind, Angelina spoke softly, tilting her head so that she was speaking into George's intact ear and not his remarkably life-like prosthetic; "he looks so alone. What happened to the Oliver we knew back at school? He looks like he doesn't have a single friend left in the world."

George had to concede that his wife was right- this Oliver looked _very_ different from the one he'd seen beaming out at him from the newspaper photographs over the years, brandishing countless trophies aloft in triumph and surrounded by ardent adoring fans. "Maybe--- well, he's probably seen as a bit of a has-been now, isn't he?" he ventured hesitantly. At his wife's scolding look he spoke hastily; "not by _me!_ I just meant… well since his injury, you know, the papers---" his voice trailed off uncertainly.

"I think I know what you mean," Angelina slipped her hand into his and tugged lightly, no longer cross with him, "come on George, Oliver looks like he could do with a friend right about now. I'm volunteering our services."

Without hesitation, the two of them headed into the darkened pub.

**…**

At the insistent tugging on his crumpled robes, Oliver didn't look up. "No autographs," he slurred disconsolately into his mead; "don' give no autographssss…" He didn't want anyone bothering him, not today. Now, where was he? Ah yes, reflecting on his nightmare of a life, that was where, aided by his seventh goblet of Merry Widow's mead and copious shots of fire whiskey. The combination didn't taste brilliant admittedly, but it would do the job. Eventually. He might soon actually forget that his life was entirely down the swanny.

Still, the tugging persisted, like an annoying, overly large fly buzzing in his ear. Oliver tutted and swiped at the hand, finally turning his head to face the culprit. "Leave me the fu—"

His eyes widened in shock, for smiling kindly back at him was one George Weasley, and with her hand securely rested in his, Angelina Johnson. "G—george…" he stammered, perplexed, his eyes taking in the familiar freckled face (he'd gotten a prosthetic ear since the war had ended, Wood realised dimly) and lanky frame. Weasley was looking older and perhaps a bit (though only a tiny bit however) wiser, for still those eyes of his shone with barely suppressed mischief.

"Alright Wood," George said simply as he patted him cordially on the shoulder, "it's been a long time."

Six years in fact. Six years since that godawful battle.

Dumbfounded, all Oliver could do was nod mutely, stunned into silence to see two of his former school Quidditch teammates stood right there. The idea that he'd run into anyone he knew being back in Diagon Alley, funnily enough just hadn't occurred to him, though now he felt silly for not considering the possibility sooner.

Oliver flushed in discomfort, realising that he must look an absolute mess- not to mention that the glasses scattered all over the bar in front of him would clearly indicate exactly how much alcohol he'd consumed today. He wasn't so pissed not to care what his two former schoolmates thought of him, he realised dully. Maybe he needed something stronger after all.

"Hi Oliver," Angelina said with that old familiar smile that instantly transported him back to his time at Hogwarts and times he'd spent going over match tactics with the team up in the Gryffindor common room. "How are you?" Her voice was kind and her dark eyes were appraising. If she noticed what a state he was in, and really she couldn't fail not to, then she didn't pass comment.

"I'm… ok," Oliver replied slowly, not meaning a single word of it. He flinched then, clearly noticing the way their eyes meandered over his collection of empty goblets.

"Drinking to drown your sorrows, mate?" George asked, but his voice wasn't mocking, merely concerned. He pointed to the glasses with a small, non-judgmental shake of his head, "nasty habit that, hard to break. I should know."

Of course. Oliver clearly remembered that after the demise of the other Weasley twin in the war, George had spent several months turning to liquor for futile support. It was something he'd heard on the grapevine, being that he was already back playing Quidditch professionally again then, but clearly the love of his family had pulled him from the depths of his sorrow. And Angelina too of course. He couldn't help but notice how her hand had never left his the whole time they were talking.

"Y—you two're still together?" he slurred, though he wasn't exactly surprised. George had fancied the pants off her at Hogwarts after all, even though Fred had been the Weasley twin she'd actually attended the Yule Ball with.

"Married actually," Angelina replied with a beam, flashing a small but beautifully cut diamond ring at him. "We had a wedding at the Burrow last summer."

"And we have a baby on the way," the pride in George's voice was unmistakeable as he patted Angelina's still-flat stomach and she grinned up at him lovingly. "It's a boy we reckon. My mum's so excited, she's been knitting non-stop since the day she found out."

"Congratulations," Oliver said, his voice hollow as he pushed away his now-empty glass. Looking at them, at how happy they obviously were, it was hard to ignore the envy that coiled through him, even in his alcohol soaked state. _Then_ he felt completely disgusted with himself as the fog that seemed to have swamped his mind cleared. George had lost his own twin brother in the war- seen him die right in front of him, he'd been through a really tough time in the years since- he deserved all the happiness he could get. How could Oliver be jealous of him for managing to turn his life around?

Another unbidden emotion was fluttering through him by now too: shame. Hot, bitter shame.

After the war and receiving his bravery award, Oliver had immediately gone back to his own cushy, Quidditch-playing existence basking in the adoration from fans and teammates alike and not **once** offering support to the remaining Weasley twin after what he'd been through. They'd been teammates once. _Friends_ almost, well as close as anybody could really get to Oliver Wood for he was a rather private person after all. If Oliver could turn his back on something like that, then maybe he _deserved_ to be alone. Now here George was, offering a sympathy to him that he just didn't deserve, that he wasn't sure he even wanted.

He stood up forlornly, his legs wobbly and feeling the world spin. "Gonna go…" he slurred. "Whoa…" instantly, his legs crumpled under him. George caught him under the armpits effortlessly and hauled him back to his somewhat wobbly feet, offering an arm for him to lean on.

"He's not getting anymore!" Hannah Abbot, the barmaid called primly, tossing her brown hair, "not in that sorry state! He's been in here hours already… drinking the bar dry, he is! Third day in a row that is now."

Angelina nodded curtly at her then exchanged dubious glances with her husband that clearly said; 'what do we do with him now?'

"Wood, whereabouts is your flat?" George asked him, his voice sounding unnaturally loud through the buzzing in his head.

"Outskirt's of Pu—puddlemere," Oliver responded haughtily, "_of course_. I was a Quidditch star, I was. Not anymore though. Now I'm just a washed-up nobody and nobody cares either, c'ept the newspapers. Hahaha…"

Angelina felt her stomach pang with sympathy as she pondered what had become of her former captain. He was a mess and they had to help him.

"Right," George said without humour, struggling to steady him and having to be helped by his wife, "well, we can't have you apparating or flooing there in this state, god knows where you'll end up or even if you'll be in one piece when you come out the other side. Come on, up you get, mate. You're coming home with us."

"I am?" even in his stupor, Wood was surprised, and touched. Rather alarmingly, he felt his hazel eyes pricking with tears, "really? Does that mean we're friends? Real friends, you aren't just a groupie?"

"I'm definitely _not_ a groupie," this time George did grin and Angelina hid a snicker, "and yes Wood, we're friends. We were at school before you buggered off and tried to achieve world domination with your mastery of catching the quaffle and all… I have to say that even though it probably isn't the best time to say it or even that it's appropriate at all-- _and _I'm going to get you sobered up pronto- I like you a lot better with a drunken look in your eye rather than the maniacal grin you used to wear on the Quidditch pitch. Put the fear of you-know-who in us that did."

Oliver snorted with laughter and allowed the Weasley's to lead him gently from the pub, thankfully far too drunk to notice their looks of dismay when they spotted his obviously painful limp and tightly hunched shoulders.

**HPHPHPHPHPHP**

"Oh Merlin…." Oliver gasped in agony as he opened his eyes several hours later and clutched his pounding forehead from where he'd been lying horizontal on a squashy red settee, "oh. Merlin."

"Drink this," a glass vial was passed towards him as he looked up blurrily into the blue eyes and freckled face of George Weasley. "Pepper up potion. It'll help with the hangover."

Oliver took a swig of the thick potion, grimacing as it burned a fiery pathway down his gullet, but sure enough the waves of nausea dissipated and he felt the ache in his skull begin to recede as he sat up uncertainly, blinking as he eyed his unfamiliar surroundings. This place was much tidier than his and didn't smell like owl poo either.

"How are you feeling?" next a mug of hot coffee was passed to him by Angelina, who sat down in the armchair opposite him, her expression somewhat sombre as she sipped from a foul smelling mug of putrid looking herbal tea.

"Like an idiot," Oliver admitted ruefully as he finally recalled where he was- in George and Angelina's flat above Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, judging by the cardboard boxes with the prominent logos he could see neatly stacked in the hallway, "completely embarrassed for being such a prat. I'm really sorry I---"

"Shut up, Wood," George ordered but not unkindly as he cut into his self-loathing diatribe, "don't worry about it, alright? We all do and say stupid things when we're pissed. Some of us more than others," he concluded at his wife's knowing expression.

Oliver nodded, gratitude welling up in him, glad neither would say no more about what a mess he clearly was or how he'd acted back in the pub. It didn't lessen the strong feelings of mortification though. He sensed that it was time for him to get his life back in order to some degree. George was right: he couldn't go on being a shambolic drunk. He'd lost his career, sure- and he might not have a bloody clue what to do next, but there were worst things that happened in the world. Fred Weasley's untimely demise was proof of that. He couldn't go around drowning in self-pity over the end of his Quidditch career any longer.

"What happened?" Angelina prodded gently, "we know about the injury… it's been in the papers."

Oliver sighed, "I don't have anything else _but_ Quidditch, that's what happened. The realisation hit me and I've been drinking to try and forget about it ever since. It's all been taken from me and I don't know what else I can do with my life. It's all I know. It's all I HAVE known since I was a kid."

Angelina couldn't argue with him- she knew from experience how Quidditch-focused Oliver had been at school, often forgoing study in favour of the sport, much to McGonagall's chagrin. Then again, when _she'd_ taken over captaincy she'd been much the same way, though she knew with unfailing certainty she'd never sacrificed her friends and schoolwork along the way. Alicia and Katie wouldn't have let her. "There's nothing else?" she prompted surprised, "what about referring or commentating? I bet you'd be really good at—" she stopped, for Oliver was already shaking his head.

"I couldn't stand it. I've had offers sure, but to not play myself but to see _others_ do it would be awful. Is it so awful that I don't think I can stand to watch other people play when _I_ can't?" Oliver asked her his eyes miserable. "Selfish I mean? It sounds a bit pathetic I know."

"It's understandable," Angelina conceded, sharing a glance with George who was looking sympathetic, "you've had your dream taken away from you, its right to be envious of those that haven't."

He gazed down into the depths of his coffee and decided to change the subject away from his career, or lack of; "it was weird, you know. Being famous. I—sometimes I liked it and sometimes I just _hated_ it. I didn't really understand it I suppose."

"Why?" George asked, surprised as he sat down on Angelina's chair arm, "I mean, all the galleons and the glory…" Not to mention all the birds hanging off his arm, though he didn't think his wife would appreciate THAT remark so kept sensibly schtum, making up his mind to ask Oliver about it later.

"People were false," Oliver replied without even needing to think about it, "they idolise you but they aren't your real friends and then when something like this happens," he gestured to his ankle and shoulder with a bitter smile, "you become yesterday's news. Suddenly nobody cares about you anymore. Not even _one_ of my old teammates has bothered to try and see how I am. The only people I've had owls from are prying journalists, oh, and my parents of course. No doubt my dad's **furious** that I'm off the team. He only ever seemed to respect me when I played Quidditch, you see. The Prophet wants some kind of exclusive interview with me, but nobody cares about _me_. The real me I mean."

Angelina tried hard not to feel sorry for him, because she knew it was the very last thing he probably wanted, "_we _care," she told him simply. Beside her, George nodded in agreement.

"Even though I pissed off back to Quidditch land to try and 'achieve world domination by catching the quaffle?'" Oliver smiled ruefully now as he repeated George's words from the pub, impressed by how good his drunken memory was.

"Even though you did all that stuff," George confirmed with a smirk. "We're Gryffindors mate- it's in our genetic makeup to care- no matter how much of a tosser you are."

Oliver's smile was more genuine now and he even laughed a little, though it lacked his usual cheerful lustre. "Thanks. For bringing me here and trying to bring me to my senses."

"It isn't much fun mate," George said simply, "the drinking and stuff. It brings you down. I know better than anyone. You should stop, really."

His usually merry blue eyes turned serious as Angelina gently squeezed his hand.

Oliver swallowed, "I'm sorry. About Fred I mean. I don't know if I said it to you at the time. He—he was a good bloke." Brilliant beater too, though he didn't say it. Somehow he didn't think George would appreciate him raising the subject of Quidditch again tonight. Angelina probably wouldn't be too pleased either.

George's smile was bittersweet; "yeah, he was. He was the best. Thanks mate."

'Mate.' Oliver smiled again wryly as he took another sip of his coffee. What a difference having friends made. For the first time since this whole mess with his ankle had started, he didn't feel completely alone anymore and he realised he was glad. He'd rather be here with the Weasley's than getting pissed in a pub or surrounded by die-hard Puddlemere United fans any day of the week.

Oliver fortunately sobered up enough to apparate to his flat an hour later, and as he surveyed the crumpled mass of parchments he'd chucked to one side, the stinking owl droppings and empty bottles that littered his floor, he winced in mortification- feeling glad George and Angelina hadn't seen this sorry state. He might not know what he wanted to do with his life anymore but that was absolutely no reason to live like a complete and utter pig, was it? With flourish he waved his wand, instantly vanishing the mess and dropped onto his settee, falling peacefully into a sound, welcome sleep for the first time in more than a week.

…

Angelina was having a bit more trouble sleeping and she knew that beside her, George was restless too. The two of them were clearly reflecting on Oliver's problems and what they'd heard that day. This was confirmed when her husband rolled over and sighed into the half-darkness. "I feel bad for him, love."

"Me too," Angelina mumbled, stroking his red hair. "It must be awful to feel that he doesn't have anything else going for him."

"Or feel that he doesn't have any friends," George added, clearly having trouble imagining that as he'd been around people- friends and family all his life, "I mean, he's a good bloke, isn't he? He might have been a bit obsessive as a captain but he was always really decent- especially to Harry when he first joined the team, remember? He got him a broom and stuff through McGonagall and he helped him learn the sport and he was _always_ around if someone had a problem they wanted to chat about. Fair enough, it was usually a sports problem but---"

"George, you're a bloody genius!" Angelina kissed him soundly, "that's exactly it! I know JUST what Oliver can do. You've given me a brilliant idea."

George looked a bit puzzled. "You do? I have?"

"I do," Angelina smiled with satisfaction, "and you have. I'm going to go and see him first thing tomorrow morning and talk about it, though I reckon I need to pick up some information to bombard him with first."

"Care to enlighten your ever-loving husband to Wood's new career path?" George prodded, intrigued.

"Not just yet," Angelina snuggled closer and closed her eyes, feeling better already; "patience is a virtue. All in good time. Besides, I don't even know if he'll agree to it or not yet."

With a wry smile, George closed his eyes too. He was _sure_ that whatever plan his wife had cooked up would undoubtedly be brilliant. If not, Angelina could certainly channel some of her old team captain spirit and 'persuade' Wood to go along with her idea. He snickered his way into sleep, feeling sorry for the bloke already.

**HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP**

The thick stack of colourful parchment looked slightly disconcerting and was made even more so by the moving picture of the sobbing witch at the top of the pile, being comforted by the kindly looking wizard- patting her shoulder and handing her a tissue with a sympathetic expression on his wrinkled face. Under the photograph the parchment was emblazoned with the scrolled words; "Discuss your problems with our trained Ministry professionals- we can help you!"

"_Wizard counselling?"_ Oliver's eyes were impossibly uncertain as he regarded Angelina over his cup of tea and thickly buttered crumpets in the Diagon Alley café the next morning, looking from her to the parchments and back again, scepticism written all over his rugged face. "You really think I could help _other _people? I don't know Angelina; sometimes I can barely help myself. Especially not lately…"

"That was just a blip," she said dismissively, realising the Oliver Wood she had once known would have never doubted himself- this injury had clearly done a number on him and his self-esteem.

"George reminded me last night that you were always very good at explaining things to other people," she sipped her dandelion tea and helped herself to a crumpet, "you helped Harry out tremendously when he first joined the Quidditch team and you were always there to listen and support people when they had problems too."

Oliver still looked confused at her insight, "but—"

"Not to mention the fact that as Gryffindors, we have a tenacity to be kind hearted and loyal," Angelina sounded completely satisfied by her conclusion, "I think you'd make a brilliant wizard counsellor, Oliver. Helping _other_ people could be just what you need to realise that just because you can't play Quidditch, doesn't mean that your life will be unfulfilling. It'll give you some focus, some sense of direction," she cast him a reproachful look, "not to mention help you stay away from the mead and fire whiskey."

He looked interested now despite himself as he glanced back at the stack of parchments again and she was pleased he seemed to be catching on to her way of thinking, "but it must take years to train, surely?" he wondered outloud.

"You can have full Ministry accreditation in a year and a half," Angelina explained and it was clear to Oliver that she'd done her research. "You got fairly decent NEWTS after all- _despite_ the fact that all you did that year was play Quidditch- and at the moment there's a comprehensive training programme going on throughout the Ministry. You're paired with a more experienced counsellor and they mentor you and then you can choose which department you want to move into on a longer-term basis." For a second, Angelina looked hesitant; "maybe… well, you could train up in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes? I thought that you'd be able to identify well with wizards who perhaps have undergone some kind of trauma or have been injured in some way…"

Oliver bit his lip waveringly, considering her words. A couple of days ago, that kind of astute remark would have made him want to burst into tears or throw things- quite possibly both. Now however, he could see the logic behind Angelina's reasoning. He had never thought of training as a counsellor, let alone helping other people in _any_ capacity other than in sport- and even then that also partly helped himself- but he could see that she was right: he certainly knew how it felt to lose something, to be injured and to have your future taken away from you. If he could help even one other person come to terms with similar things happening in their own lives, then quite possibly he wasn't destined to be such a failure after all.

He took a deep breath and then raised his head expectantly, meeting Angelina's hopeful dark eyes; "so where do I sign up?"

**HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP**

**A/N:** Reviews are always appreciated. I hope to have chapter two posted early next week, when Oliver and Lavender will actually meet and the nitty-gritty of the story really begins. :)


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

**First impressions**

**Disclaimers:** see prologue.

**A/N: **Thanks to those who've already read and reviewed this- I know the pairing seems a bit odd, but thanks for giving it a chance! There will be an update at least once a week, maybe more depending on my workload so please put me on alert if you haven't already.

--As Lavender Brown isn't actually physically described in the books and I couldn't find anything on Wikipedia or in HP Lexicon etc, I took a few liberties with her description in this.

**HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP**

It was safe to say that Lavender Brown wasn't exactly a Quidditch fan. The game reminded her too much of a certain Weasley she'd rather forget, thank-you-very-much and truthfully she had never really understood the rules either and sometimes the game seemed to go on for _bloody ages_. Standing in the howling Scottish wind and rain for hours on end?

Not. Fun.

Fair enough, she'd enjoyed occaisionally watching matches when she'd been at Hogwarts- but it was more of a social aspect than anything else back then- time to have a good natter with her mates in a jovial atmosphere and rate which boy looked the cutest in his team robes, rather than which player's _form_ was the best, Merlin forbid.

She'd always found the games to be well, rather _brutal _actually if she thought about it. Manic bludgers that knocked people off brooms, people getting sideswiped in mid-air and plummeting lethally to the ground, all in an effort to catch that little golden ball that was almost too tiny to see… Lavender shuddered at the very thought.

So, the day when she discovered that Oliver Wood had signed up to the Wizard International Mentoring Programme (WIMP) she honestly couldn't see why all of her female colleagues were quite so excited. She was rather more surprised than anything else at his seemingly new change in vocation. Why on _earth_ would Oliver Wood want to train to be a wizard counsellor? Wasn't he supposed to be a famous Quidditch star or something?

"I went to school with him, he was a few years above me," she said matter of factly, setting down her quill and eyeing her fellow workers with surprise as they bounded excitedly around the main counselling office, waxing lyrical about Oliver's 'amazingly buff body' and 'dreamy hazel eyes,' "I thought he played as a keeper for Puddlemere United? What's he put his name down on the new sign-up list here for?" She was beyond confused, wondering just what she'd missed.

"_Honestly_ Lavender," Lucy Barlow tutted though not unkindly, as she fluffed her dark hair; "don't you even read the Prophet anymore? Wood's career is over. Finito! He had a bad injury last month- hurt his ankle and shoulder apparently after he made a save and fell off his broom. He'll never play Quidditch again the papers reckon."

"Oh," despite not liking the game one iota, Lavender couldn't help but feel a bit sad at the surprising news. She admittedly didn't know Oliver Wood personally, only by sight, reputation and what she'd seen of him in the school matches, but all of Gryffindor House had been proud and delighted when he'd been recruited by the professional Quidditch league and signed to Puddlemere as keeper- first the reserves and then later taken on in the first team. He'd played for the England team on occaision too and had looked to have a stellar future in the sport.

Lavender racked her brains, trying to recollect what Wood actually _looked_ like and suddenly remembered with alarming crystal clear clarity that he was one of the former students who had returned to aid Dumbledore's Army during the Battle of Hogwarts six years ago.

Lavender immediately blinked back the painful memories, involuntarily running her index finger down the right-hand side of her face as she did so, feeling the uneven, twisted skin beneath her cool finger-tips just thinking, as a mounting sense of dread rose in the pit of her stomach.

The Battle of Hogwarts… everything bloody came back to that, didn't it? Oliver Wood… he'd be another constant reminder of what had happened to her, wouldn't he?

It just never stopped. Why did he have to come _here? _Why did he have to encroach on her unbothered and more to the point, _safe_ territory?

Lucy was watching the far away look that had fallen over her colleague's face all of a sudden. "Are you ok?" she asked Lavender tentatively. She recognised that look in Lavender's unhappy turquoise eyes- the look that said she was once more reflecting on the past with unbidden sorrow and resentment. It was a look many of the counsellors were familiar with after all and Lavender had reason to reflect on the past with sadness more than most. Everyone knew that.

"I'm just fine," Lavender said brightly, instantly blinking like nothing was amiss and gathering together her quills and parchment, her expression changing from deep unhappiness to one of nonchalance in a millisecond. "I have a meeting with Rowan Pratt in five minutes. Is meeting room eleven free?"

"It's all yours…" Lucy watched Lavender depart with her head held high as always, her stomach welling with a familiar sympathy for the other woman as she sat down at her own wooden desk and rested her chin on her steepled fingertips.

Lavender Brown was something of an enigma amongst the other counsellors and truthfully, not many people knew her very well. She was always polite, granted and a bloody brilliant counsellor, but she had a tendency to keep herself to herself and was very focused on her job and helping others. Nobody knew anything about her personal life, who her friends were or even what she _did_ in her spare time.

Lucy knew that Lavender's deliberate evasiveness was probably something and everything to do with the long fading scars that criss-crossed the mangled right-hand side of her otherwise pretty face and descended like gnarled broken veins onto her slim neck. It was probably also the same reason why Lavender could never fully look at new acquaintances in the eye, and similarly the reason why she always wore her long blond hair loose and curly around her face, hiding most of her damaged profile.

The scars that had destroyed half of Lavender's face, Lucy knew, were from the war. Bitter reminders of what that awful, awful monster, Fenrir Greyback had done to her colleague that dreadful night, though Lavender never _ever_ talked about it. Not to anyone.

Lucy only knew what had happened mainly from ministry hearsay and what had been reported in the Prophet following the battle's horrific conclusion- though she did know that like many others who had bravely fought that day, Lavender was lucky to be alive.

It was most discerning, Lucy realised as she rummaged through her inter-departmental memos with a somewhat sad smile thinking about the other woman: Lavender Brown had been a fully-qualified wizard counsellor for almost two years now and she had never even talked about her own past, nor what had happened to her at the Battle of Hogwarts.

Lucy wondered deep down if she ever would.

**…**

The Ministry was rather busy today, Oliver thought as he consulted the piece of parchment he held in his hands for the millionth time, following the straggling crowd of witches and wizards towards the elevators.

It was a Friday morning, granted, but it _was_ still bloody early- when he had been at Puddlemere, he was lucky if he ever _saw_ nine o'clock on a Monday morning- he was usually too hung-over. Quidditch training sessions had _always_ been in the afternoons, giving the players' time to recover from that all important night before- from the raucous party sessions and celebratory drinks to the debauchery that inevitably followed afterwards.

Oliver imagined that if he was to work here, it wouldn't _just_ be the early starts that would take some getting used to- though he probably wouldn't miss the social life if he was honest. As he had told George and Angelina, those people hadn't really been his friends, much as it pained him to admit it. He wasn't being cynical: he was being honest.

He felt nervous as well today despite himself and despite the smart charcoal robes he wore and the professional demeanour he tried to portray as he strode towards the elevators, trying valiantly to ignore his limp. His dark hair was neatly groomed and he looked the complete polar opposite of the way he usually looked on the pitch- no windblown hair or mud streaking his skin for starters, but still he didn't miss some of the stares that came his way. People still recognised him even looking like this, and as he struggled into the already tightly crammed elevator, he could hear people muttering about him and see them looking down at his ankle.

They didn't even _try_ to hide their ogling- _no bloody tact_, he thought furiously, his expression hardening to one of grim determination, though of course he had expected a reaction like this.

He chose to resolutely ignore the furtive whispering and tried to curb his burgeoning resentment that people were staring at him, looking instead at the folded pieces of paper zooming haphazardly overhead. Some kind of memos, he imagined- moving from office to office. It was quite a clever system actually. This was confirmed when the elevator arrived at the next floor and several pieces of paper zoomed merrily away.

"Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes…" announced a tinny disembodied voice from the elevator. "Be careful where you step."

Oliver consulted the piece of paper he held in his hand and carefully stepped out of the lift too, glad to leave the obvious elevator gossip behind him. Undoubtedly the fact that he was at the Ministry of Magic would be all over the Prophet by the end of the day and people would wonder what he was doing here. Just when he was starting to get used to the fact that stories about him as a 'has-been' were slowly dying away from the front page, there'd be new rumours about him- something he _wasn't _relishing the thought of one little bit. He could only imagine the kind of things that would be said about him.

Oliver took a deep breath, trying not to dwell on the past and what had happened to him: he was here for a fresh start. This could be a new beginning for him should he let it. He needed to stop trying to be resentful, difficult though that was- he was actually lucky to be given this opportunity.

At the same time, he _did_ wonder what on earth he was doing here and how he'd managed to let Angelina talk him into it.

As the elevator zoomed upwards and away from him, reminding himself of that fact, Oliver consulted a wooden sign affixed to the corridor wall. His interview with the Director of the Counselling Service and head of WIMP for Britain, Jeremiah Proudfoot, was due to begin in ten minutes, though judging from the multitude of arrows the sign portrayed and the labyrinth of doors he could see before him, it might take him a while to find the office. Perplexed and feeling more than a little bit lost, Oliver looked up and down the quiet corridor.

Thankfully, a witch was striding away from him towards the end of the corridor, dressed in slinky black robes and a pair of killer high heels, clutching a thick stack of parchments to herself, though she seemed to be in something of a hurry.

"Excuse me?" Oliver called hopefully, not just thinking about directions now. Those were some _great_ legs, nice curvy arse too, and after all he _was_ a bloke. Plus, it had been a while since he'd engaged in any extra-curricular activity, so to speak. A while for _him_ anyway. He chided himself inwardly for his thoughts.

The witch turned around then and Oliver saw that not only did she have a nice arse; she had a great little waist as well. Admiringly, he raked his hazel eyes up her trim little body, any self-chastisement vanishing instantly.

"Yes?" she sounded slightly impatient, "is there something you needed? Only I'm in a bit of a hurry."

"Actually---" Oliver's eyes fell on the witch's halo of soft blond curls and smiled with satisfaction, not fully focusing on the features her face for the moment, as most of it was obscured by a cloud of thick hair, "you _could_ help me out if you have a moment… I'm a bit lost, see and…"

As the witch sighed, walking towards him her head lowered reluctantly, Oliver was hit by a flash of recognition. He knew this witch. Well, not 'knew her' per se, but she was a former Hogwarts student too, wasn't she? He'd definitely seen her around way back when. She might even have been in Gryffindor. Well, that would make things a bit better if he did get onto the mentoring scheme here, having a former Gryffindor around him, wouldn't it?

Pleased now and feeling better than he had in days, Oliver handed the witch the piece of parchment, which she accepted, still not lifting her head. "I have a meeting with Jeremiah Proudfoot and the signs telling me where to go are a bit confusing…" he explained, shrugging, hoping he didn't sound too much of an idiot.

"I see," the witch didn't sound too happy to hear that, truthfully and his brow furrowed a little at her brisk tone as he tried to see her face to gague her expression. "Well, you need to head right at the end of the corridor and then take the second door on the left. It opens up into an atrium and Jeremiah's door is first on your left."

"Thanks," Oliver took the paper back and folded it, placing it back into his robes. Then he held out his hand, hoping to engage her in further conversation and actually get her to look at him, "I'm Oliver."

"I know who you are," the witch still didn't look up as she shook his hand very quickly. "I went to Hogwarts too."

"I thought so," Oliver was glad he hadn't made a mistake. "Gryffindor too, right?"

"That's right," her hair hung in her face and Oliver had the insane urge to brush it out of her eyes all of a sudden so he could see her properly. His fingers itched to do it and he busied himself by smoothing down the front of his robes instead.

"You still haven't given me your name," he reminded her, wondering if perhaps she was a little bit shy.

Only now did the girl reluctantly raise her head, and Oliver couldn't stop the small gasp from escaping his lips when he saw her horrifically mangled skin, nor could he prevent himself from taking an involuntary step backwards.

"It's Lavender," she told him in a cool voice, turquoise eyes unexpectedly defiant as they reached his, "Lavender Brown."

"Oh," Oliver stuttered, unsure as to _why_ he was stuttering but suddenly quite unable to avert his eyes from her face.

Now he remembered her.

He remembered her well from those nights when he'd seen her curled up gossiping in the common room with the other little firsties. He could quite clearly also recollect the pretty little thing she'd been before _this_ happened- before Fenrir had gotten to her, for now he knew who she was and knew undoubtedly why she looked like this.

Oliver's eyes unconsciously drank in her mismatched features- one half of her face with its delicate porcelain skin and the other half macabre and distorted with the faded magical stitches. It was almost as if he was looking into a mirror where one half had smashed and had been glued back together incorrectly but the other remained pristine. Perfect.

Lavender tilted her chin as she sensed his eyes running over her, "had a good enough look, have you?" she asked him challengingly, a bitter smile marring her uneven lips. This _always_ happened but that certainly didn't mean she was used to it- men saw her from the back or only saw half of her profile and liked what they saw- particularly her legs and arse, then when they got a bit closer…

That was when they saw what a monster she really was.

Oliver flushed profusely. "I didn't—I'm sorry I didn't mean…" he stammered, taking another unconscious step backwards and almost tripping over his own feet in his haste.

Salvaging her usual air of dignity and striving for nonchalance even _she_ wasn't aware she possessed, Lavender sniffed dismissively and gathered her papers closer to herself once more. "Good luck in your interview," she said airily, striding down the corridor away from him, leaving Oliver staring after her in stunned dismay.

**…**

Lavender didn't make it very far however. As far as the ladies toilets infact, where she locked herself in one of the cubicles and rested her burning face against the cool ceramic tiles, fighting back the sobs that threatened to escape her, her meeting long forgotten.

Quite simply put, Lavender wanted to curl up and die. It wasn't the first time that a man had looked at her like _that_, but to know that handsome Oliver Wood had looked at her with so much disgust on his face made her insides want to shrivel up with shame. He'd been horrified when he'd seen her scars, not that she blamed him of course.

It had taken some getting used to herself.

Lavender didn't look in mirrors much nowadays- her old vain self of her schooldays was long gone, as were many other silly little character traits from her past- her soppy sentimentality, her love of divination and makeup and expensive perfumes... What was the point? They all seemed rather trite in the grand scheme of things.

Lavender didn't see the point in much nowadays if she was honest. She hadn't seen the point in much since the end of the war, as it happened. Since... Greyback. What he'd done to her. The actual attack was locked away in the back of her mind and she point blank refused to revisit it, though it _did_ unfortunately sometimes surface at the most inopportune of moments, during nightmares, during consultations when a patient said something that jarred an unpleasant memory...

There also seemed to be little point in her using glamour charms to conceal her scars, much to her mother's distress- not when everyone already knew what had happened to her- the Prophet had certainly seen to _that_. The outcome of her extensive though failed reconstructive surgery at St Mungo's had been reported in great detail in the Prophet in the months following the end of the war and for weeks afterwards, wizard paparazzi had clamoured to catch a snatched glimpse of her in her hospital room, much to her panic. She didn't want ANYONE to see her looking like this...

Like a monster. The monster she felt she'd become.

She'd hidden away in shame- then. Not any longer, for Lavender Brown was made of stronger stuff than even _she'd_ ever suspected, it seemed, though of course it had taken her many, many months to go out and face the world again and to decide what to do with her life.

Lavender would help others come to terms with bad things that had happened to them, she'd finally decided from her hospital bed at St Mungo's Recuperation and Rehabilitation Centre where she'd spent months following the facial surgeries. _Forget_ divination or an apprenticeship at Madame Malkins... if she could make something positive come from something so awful then maybe she wasn't a total lost cause after all.

Lavender knew it was finally time to grow up, and grow up she had. The day she had seen the pamphlets for the counselling course scattered around the library of the rehab centre, it had seemed like fate had given her a helping hand and she'd signed up immediately, much to her parents surprise.

Signing up to the mentoring programme for WIMP brought about another issue however: Why on earth should a wizarding _counsellor_ hiding their true self from their patients?

Lavender had decided immediately that it seemed wholly hypocritical to conceal her new true self when some of the counselling patients had undergone worse accidents or traumas than what _she_ had and had consequently opted not to cast a glamour charm over herself from the very start of her mentoring programme- her patients had seemed to appreciate it, even emphasise with her, which she was grateful for. Her colleagues had stared at first of course, though now they barely seemed to notice her scarred face anymore.

Lavender had decided to train to be a counsellor after the war because she more than anyone, knew what it was like to live with trauma, to be seen as 'different' by her peers after all. To be pitied…

Wiping her eyes now, she took a deep, defiant breath to steady her suddenly fraught nerves. She would not be pitied by anyone any longer, especially not Oliver Wood. If he couldn't bear to look at her, well… that was _his_ bloody problem! She had NOTHING to be ashamed of.

Feeling marginally better already yet trying to convince herself this was in fact true, Lavender smoothed down her robes and exited the toilets.

She had a meeting to get to.

**…**

The interview with Proudfoot had been a success, from what Oliver actually recalled of it and he was surprised to find that he was actually pleased when he was accepted onto the counselling programme under the training of a yet-to-be-assigned mentor.

When Proudfoot had asked him his reason for wanting to join the programme, Oliver had been honest: he thought helping others might help _himself _too, selfish as that might sound. He also knew what it was like to lose something important, though that had sounded cynical and trite, comparing traumatic injuries to the loss of a quidditch career. Nevertheless, Proudfoot seemed to appreciate his honesty and said he thought that Wood could be an 'asset' to the programme.

Truthfully though, Oliver had spent most of the forty minutes in that office in a dumbstruck haze, his stomach churning when he remembered the way Lavender Brown had reacted to him and he to her in that corridor- both initially in that sexual way, and then with alarm when he'd seen her entire facial profile. Why oh why had he looked at her like that? Why had he _reacted_ like that?

Shock he knew, but it certainly didn't make him feel any less terrible for doing so. He'd been utterly awful and his behaviour had been inexcusable- stammering and unable to look away from her mangled skin with gruesome fascination, yet simultaneously almost tripping over his own feet in his haste to back away from her.

The expression in _her_ eyes had been pained, though resigned. Almost as if she was used to it, to the staring. He imagined with a pang that she was. He'd thought _his_ situation was bad, with people gawping at him and whispering behind his back- pointing at his limp and uneven shoulders as they had in the elevator that morning, but he couldn't quite imagine how it felt to be Lavender Brown, particularly since he remembered she'd been very pretty before.

That confused him too- why didn't she just use a glamour spell on herself? Even George Weasley, not remotely renowned for his vanity, used a prosthetic ear to hide the scars on the side of his head from that miscast curse during the war. Lavender, from what he could recollect- not that he'd really known her, had always appeared to be a rather girly girl- the complete opposite of someone like that bookish Granger girl for example, focused on her appearance and whatnot- surely she would use magic to try and improve her disfigured appearance?

Then Oliver understood it all in an instant: even on first impressions today, Lavender had seemed to be proud, to be dignified, he imagined that she was not a person who would shy away from what had happened to her, particularly being such a highly qualified counsellor as what Jeremiah had indicated frequently throughout their chat. She would not disguise her true self away if she was helping others going through troubling situations, would she? It wouldn't be right.

With another anguished pang, Oliver remembered how she'd deliberately hidden her face behind her cloud of lustrous blonde hair when he'd first spoken to her to ask for directions- clearly she didn't like facing new people at first, was highly uncertain of their reactions to her, probably because she'd had bad experiences with people in the past. He'd then only gone and reaffirmed everything she believed in by being a bastard and being unable to look her in the eye.

He knew without a doubt that he needed to make it up to her- somehow.

The only question was: how?

**HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP**

**A/N: **Hmm, not a particularly successful first meeting, granted. Let's hope things get a bit better soon. As ever, reviews are love :)


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

**No longer a monster**

**Disclaimers: **See prologue

**HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP**

It wasn't exactly a surprise for Lavender to realise that Jeremiah Proudfoot had been simply "delighted" with Oliver Wood during the interview that day. No doubt the former Quidditch pro could charm the bloody birds from the trees, she thought sourly- it went without saying of course, that Proudfoot was a big Quidditch fan. Nevertheless, she _was_ interested to see if he was going to be as dedicated to the mentoring programme as he had been with the sport he'd adored so much at school- he'd always struck Lavender as ambitious and highly dedicated when it came to quidditch at least, not that she'd ever given him much thought either way.

The counselling career though, was rather surprising- what had made him want to turn to _that_? Maybe it was just a whim and he wouldn't stick with it. Lavender wracked her brains hard, thinking about it. She had suspected that Wood may have possibly preferred another sports-orientated career, such as refereeing or commentating. To know that he was moving into a vocation to aid and assist traumatised wizards was a little bit startling to say the least.

A slow, bitter smile crept over her lips as she set down her quill and stared blankly into space, her expression ironic thinking back to their awkward encounter that very morning.

Wood certainly needed to tone down his reactions to sights of ugly scarring or spell damage if he really _was_ going to train to be a counsellor, she thought_._ Not every witch or wizard acted as nonchalantly as Lavender Brown did after all.

**…**

Lavender's mixed-up thoughts on Oliver Wood were reinforced ten-fold later that evening when she curled up on the comfortable old blue settee in her Hertfordshire cottage with that day's edition of the Evening Prophet. She hadn't so much as glanced at the paper in years, not since before she'd been an avid focus for it in fact- but some inner curiosity had somehow gotten the better of her today and she wondered whether the paper would have a story on Wood in it.

Sure enough, there was indeed an exclusive 'Wood Watch' article by an ailing Rita Skeeter on Page 3, detailing how he had been spotted at the Ministry only that very morning and speculating as to his reasons for being there. The conclusions drawn were wildly speculative and certainly imaginative in the extreme, but the idea that Oliver was becoming a trainee 'finder of shiny things' in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Department did at least give Lavender a good laugh and made her feel slightly better about things. For the moment anyway. Jeremiah had already told her that Wood was going to begin his mentorship at the Ministry the very next week and what was even worse was that _she_ was expected to be his mentor! She should have known that cruel fate would give her another kick in the teeth.

How was she supposed to train him, if he couldn't even look her in the face without feeling sick? How could he share her small office with him if he couldn't even look her in the eye?

Maybe she should cast that glamour spell on herself after all.

**HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP**

When Oliver arrived at the Ministry early on Monday morning his nerves were once again on a knife edge. He'd alternated all weekend between excitement at the thought of trying something new career wise, wondering if he'd be any good at it and again a depression that from now on, he would be seen as some kind of pen-pusher, an office worker… It really was too bad. His dad had rather agreed with that sentiment- infact he wasn't speaking to him at all, positively furious that Oliver had seemingly 'settled' for this new unexpected vocation rather than pushing himself to get a refereeing job or a highly revered commentary position with WWN. He had insisted that his son do an interview with the Prophet to 'set the record straight' but Oliver was in no mood to speak to nosy journalists or put up with that Skeeter hags nonsense.

Oliver hadn't bothered explaining to his father his spiralling feelings of depression either- his unhappiness and fear at only being able to watch and not play Quidditch for the rest of his life, he just hadn't seen the point. He knew his father would only pooh pooh the issue anyway. He was never a man to talk about feelings or emotions with any of his children. Consequently, father and son were locked in an unrelenting stalemate, though his brothers and mother only seemed to want what was best for him. George and Angelina too, had been extra-supportive whenever he'd spoken to them. So, all in all, he really wasn't one hundred percent sure what to expect today.

Thankfully he found the department without any problems this time, though the stares in the elevator had not abated in the slightest- people seemed more curious than ever about him as it happened, probably due to that bloody stupid article that had been in last weeks Evening Prophet. Proudfoot, a burly man with prematurely greying hair certainly seemed ecstatic to have him there though; pumping his hand in greeting the very second he knocked at his door.

"I'm sure you'll be delighted to hear that I've assigned your mentor for the first part of the programme," he said jovially, "she's one of our very best members of staff you know. Lovely, kind-hearted girl and excellent with everyone she sees. You'll learn a lot from her. She knows just how to treat our patients and really gets through to them."

"Her?" Oliver had another one of those alarming flashes of insight where he knew just what was coming next.

"Lavender Brown," Proudfoot beamed, causing Oliver's heart to sink even further into his boots.

For all weekend, between alternating bouts of insomnia, anger and furtive boredom, Oliver had fretted over his reaction to Lavender Brown that Friday, whilst simultaneously deciding what to do to rectify the situation. He knew that once he got to work and began his training he'd probably have to face her sometimes, so trying to apologise for his reaction to her scars seemed fully justified- not to mention the shame that coiled hotly in his stomach as he remembered backing away from her that awful Friday morning.

To know that he'd actually be working WITH her right away however caused his stomach to churn. He wasn't _ready!_ How could he face her when he'd been so horrible? He didn't even have an apology rehearsed yet!

Nevertheless, Proudfoot was beckoning to him encouragingly and he had no choice but to follow him from the room, gritting his teeth against his painful limp- it was hurting him more than ever today. Karma, he suspected dully.

"Lavender is rather quiet," Proudfoot revealed as they walked down the quiet halls, "a bit introverted some might say, but she's one of the best counsellors we have on the staff. She's a good ear for patients to cry to and when it comes down to it, she's one of the kindest people I've ever met."

Gryffindor through and through, Oliver supposed, actually forgetting to be nervous as he listened to Proudfoot's insight into Lavender's character. He'd always thought from his own impressions and also what he'd heard George Weasley tell him when he'd casually mentioned her in passing over the weekend- because he was curious and not for any _other_ reason of course- that Lavender was somewhat silly and sentimental. George had mentioned she was into fortune telling and all that malarkey. Now he was finding out from people that evidently revered and respected her in a professional capacity that she was nothing like he'd imagined her to be at all. The war had clearly changed her immeasurably and not just on the outside.

It was given that she was loyal and kind of course- traits of the house that she had been sorted into at the age of eleven. Bravery was another Gryffindor characteristic- she'd fought for Dumbledore at a great loss to her own physical appearance, yet here she was, helping others with their own problems and troubles like nothing was amiss. It really made him want to get to know her as a person, though it was highly doubtful she'd let him now, given his unjust reaction to her scars last week.

Screw the rehearsed apology- Oliver would have to try and be himself and just hope that it was enough.

He was about to find out- Proudfoot was knocking on an office door and a calm voice from inside called out to them to enter. Palms sweating and heart thudding uncomfortably, he followed the older man into the tidy, though incredibly small office.

"Lavender, this is Oliver," Proudfoot introduced them, quite unnecessarily of course.

It was only when she looked up that Oliver realised that this Lavender Brown looked _quite_ different from the woman he'd encountered only last week. Her blond hair was pushed back from her face by little silver hair slides, revealing a perfectly symmetrical heart-shaped face, accentuated by flawless ivory skin and high cheekbones.

A glamour charm.

Oliver felt his eyes widen in astonishment as he raked his eyes over her, not knowing what to say or do. How could he react to this? She'd cast a glamour charm over herself and had Oliver not been privy to what she _really_ looked like underneath it just last week, he never would have known that anything was amiss. This Lavender Brown was pretty- beautiful infact. She looked like the sort of woman who regularly draped herself all over him in pubs or had tried to get his attention at Quidditch games. This pretty blonde was the woman who Lavender Brown would have become, had Fenrir Greyback not gotten his claws into her and mauled her face into an unrecognisable mask.

Just as quickly the astonishment at her appearance faded to an uncomfortable knot that sat dully in the pit of his stomach.

The notion that she'd actually gone and cast a glamour charm over herself made his heart ache unbearably. She'd done it because of how he'd reacted to her last week, he knew she had and it made him feel sick to know he'd affected her this badly and that she felt she needed to do this to herself because of him. If he could turn back time, he'd go right back to that moment and not stumble away from her the second when he saw her whole face for the first time or allow his eyes to widen with horror…

Only he couldn't of course.

Instead, he steeled himself for what he was sure was going to be an unpleasant training session. It was only what he deserved after all. She was right not to make this easy for him.

When Proudfoot left however, Lavender surprised him by offering him a drink, her voice calm and composed.

"Drink?" he asked uncertainly, wondering if he'd misheard her.

"Tea? Coffee? Pumpkin juice?" she prodded, a somewhat mischievous smile curling her lips. It was her eyes that Oliver was so resolutely focused on however, he was very sure that he'd never seen irises quite that turquoise colour before. He'd noticed them the other day, well, after her legs and arse of course. They were quite undeniably pretty.

"Um, tea. Thank you," he managed, flushing when he realised how ungainly he sounded. He blushed even more when he turned around and somehow managed to knock several rolls of neatly stacked parchment off her desk. The office was rather too crammed full of objects and knick-knacks for his burly frame. "Oh- gods, sorry…"

"Don't worry about it," Lavender said, flicking her wand and quickly rightening them, "take a seat, I'll be right back."

Oliver did, thankfully not destroying any more of her office in the process. He watched her leave, biting his lower lip in consternation, wondering just when she was going to get around to screaming at him.

**…**

Lavender leaned against the cupboard in the tiny kitchen adjoining her office, trying to regain some level of composure. This was going to be tough. She'd thought that Oliver would appreciate the glamour spell she'd cast over herself, but to her surprise it seemed to have unsettled him even more. What in Merlin's name was wrong with him?

With a sigh, she flicked her wand, quickly assembling china cups, saucers, a milk jug, sugar and some steaming Earl Grey tea which poured itself merrily into a pretty flowered china teapot. It was a muggle brand of tea and one she was quite fond of, the rich liquid always seemed to settle her nerves before any appointments and she imagined Oliver could do with that this morning too. He'd looked a tad nervous when he entered her office, though maybe that was just because _she'd_ been set as his mentor and he didn't know how she'd react to him given their little altercation last week. He shouldn't have worried- Lavender Brown was nothing if not professional and she would do everything she could to set him at ease- surely she'd already proved that by casting the spell?

Men. She would never understand them.

When she got back to the office levitating the silver tea tray in front of herself, Oliver was seated uncomfortably at the chair facing her desk. It looked far too small for his burly frame- almost like the chair had been meant for a very young wizard child, and she hid a smile despite herself. "You can engorge it if you want," she offered, setting the tray down, gesturing to the chair.

He flushed again, "I didn't want to presume---"

"It's fine."

Gratefully he did so and looked slightly more at ease when he sat back down, though she noticed he still couldn't quite meet her eyes. Rather baffled for she'd been sure the glamour spell would set him at ease, she busied herself pouring them the tea. "It's Earl Grey," she said, "muggle tea variety. I hope that's ok?"

"It's fine," he replied tightly, looking at the pictures on the office walls, rather than directly at her.

Lavender's brow furrowed slightly at his evasive manner but she didn't comment. "Sugar? Milk?"

"No thanks."

The dainty flowery china cup looked a bit ridiculous in Oliver's large keeper hands, but he didn't pass comment. Nor did she, as she primly sat back down in her chair. When the silence grew almost stifling in its awkwardness, she finally spoke, her tone indecipherable.

"You _will_ have to look at me some time you know."

Only now did he lift his head and quite clearly she saw the shame reflected in his deep hazel eyes as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear; "I'm sorry," he ventured tentatively, cracking his knuckles and causing her to wince, "about- um, the other day I mean."

Startled for she'd been so sure he wouldn't mention the subject or how he had visibly recoiled when he'd seen her face for the first time, she raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. "Don't worry about it," she said airily, her voice suggesting that she was quite used to it.

"But---"

"It's fine," she cut into his rambling with a terse expression, "let's not mention it anymore. Really. Now," she unrolled a piece of parchment and grabbed a quill, clearly wanting to change the subject, "I suppose I should explain the programme and some goals we need to set for you. Initially you're going to have a lot of reading to do and you'll be sitting in on my sessions with patients as an observer only, just until you familiarise yourself with what's expected of you and also what your _patients_ will expect of you."

"But---" crestfallen, Oliver watched as his only chance of properly apologising to her went right out of the window. Lavender clearly didn't want to talk about it, nor hear him say that he really wished she _hadn't_ cast that spell on herself after all. For that was the truth- nobody should have to change themselves to make somebody _else_ feel comfortable.

Oliver felt like a bloody idiot.

**HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP**

"How was your first day training as a wizard counsellor then?" George asked Oliver later that evening over a pub tea in the Leaky Cauldron. Angelina was having a girly catch-up (aka baby-talk session) at Alicia Spinnet's which left him free to do 'blokey stuff.' But no beer. Or mead. Not after the state Oliver had been in last time. He was under explicit instructions from Angelina to keep Wood sober. Thankfully, OIiver seemed to have the same idea and they were sticking to pumpkin juice- a bit watery admittedly, but it was better than nothing.

Oliver pushed a piece of steak and ale pie around his plate listlessly, "s'alright I suppose," he mumbled.

"Say that a bit more convincingly mate and I might start to believe you." George shovelled in a forkful of battered fish and mushy peas and spoke around a mouthful of food. "What happened?"

Oliver lifted his head, a thought striking him that maybe George _would_ be the perfect person to talk to after all, regarding his situation with Lavender. "How did you feel when Bill got attacked by Greyback?"

George set down his fork, uncertainly, wondering what on earth had made Wood ask him about his older brother. "That's a bit of a random question, mate." _Understatement of the year._

Oliver rubbed his temples impatiently. "Lavender Brown is my mentor on the counselling training programme."

Things suddenly started making sense for George. "Ah."

"'Ah' indeed," Oliver said grimly, "I upset her. Last week. Before my interview. I saw her scars in the corridor and I was really shocked and---"

George looked puzzled and even a little surprised, "she doesn't cast a glamour charm over herself?"

Oliver smiled without humour. "She does now." And without hesitation, he told the Weasley the whole sorry saga right from what had happened that dreaded Friday morning, to today and how he'd gone to work and discovered Lavender had cast the charm after all. "I must have made her feel awful," he concluded, "because now she's cast this charm to try and make _me_ feel comfortable and I wish she hadn't."

George smiled sympathetically, "it's awkward then?"

"That's putting it mildly." Oliver thought back to that day where the tension had been thick between them and the air rife with unspoken conversation. Every time he had tried to steer the conversation onto another apology or tried to talk about her and the charm, Lavender had successfully steered the conversation back onto _his_ goals or in-depth discussions about the counselling programme. It was frustrating beyond belief. Lavender Brown was incredibly skilled at evading the subject.

"When Bill was attacked it _was_ hard looking at him at first," George admitted now, using a slice of bread to mop up some squashy chips and vinegar, "I'd be lying if I said it wasn't. Then again, my mum found it hard looking at _me_ with the whole ear thing…" he pointed to the side of his head, "that's why I wear the prosthetic you know, for my mum's benefit. Angelina isn't bothered- she loves me as I am, and it's the same with Bill and Fleur. Scars don't change someone as a person- they're the same on the inside."

Oliver nodded gloomily; "her face George, when she saw me staring—it was awful. I feel so bad. I was so shocked I couldn't help backing away from her. I feel pathetic now."

George's eyes were thoughtful, "I'm pretty surprised she didn't cast a glamour charm right from the start you know- she was always one of those birds that was pretty preoccupied with their appearance at Hogwarts from what I can remember. Ron went out with her you know," he added, referring to his youngest brother.

"He did?"

"Yep, in their sixth year. Didn't last long. From what Ron said, she was a bit silly and girly- all about her clothes and nails apparently. Well, he's seeing Hermione now isn't he, so we all know what sort of girl _he_ prefers."

"She isn't silly," Oliver was quite unaware he'd jumped to her defence so staunchly, "well, I mean she might have been- once, but she's changed. She's clever and kind and a really good counsellor and everyone there seems to regard her really highly and---" he stopped short at the knowing look on George's face. "What?"

"You fancy her."

Oliver spluttered incredulously. "What? No I don't! I barely even know her!"

George snickered teasingly, "doesn't matter mate. Doesn't take a genius to work out why you've been asking all these probing questions and getting so maudlin tonight."

"I just—I feel like I need to make it up to her, that's all," Oliver insisted. "Besides, she isn't my type." He winced at George's disbelieving expression, "and no, it's _nothing_ to do with the scars before you say anything."

"Clever and kind isn't your type?" George remarked slyly, "not to _mention_ the fact that she's a pretty blond with legs up to her armpits, gorgeous eyes _and_ a cracking little arse."

Oliver flushed hotly, wishing he hadn't told George all that- true as it was.

George saw his discomfited expression as he ate another forkful of chips soaked in vinegar, "take it from me mate, just try and be yourself around her. Get on with the training programme- it's what you're there for after all. The apology will happen in time."

Oliver sighed miserably and only hoped that his friend was right.

**HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP**

When Parvati Patil saw that Lavender had cast a glamour charm over herself, she was rather surprised to say the least. Infact, she was so startled she near enough dropped the big glass orb she was carrying, only rightening it at the very last second and setting it down on her counter with confusion. Thoughts of stock-taking her Diagon Alley shop were instantly long forgotten upon seeing her best friend's forlorn expression.

"Lav…" she said slowly, as she eyed her pale face clearly realising that something was amiss, "what happened? Why have you---"

Lavender pulled off her blue outer dress robes and shook her head frustratedly as she rested her elbows on one of the wooden shelves with a sniff, narrowly missing knocking over a box full of healing crystals. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Big surprise," Parvati muttered under her breath with a sigh, for that was certainly a common occurrence with Lavender after all: she NEVER wanted to talk about it. Ever. And Parvati was her best friend in the world.

Parvati and Lavender had been best friends since practically their very first day at Hogwarts. After Padma, Parvati's twin sister had been sorted into Ravenclaw, she'd feared she'd never find another girl she'd be as close to but thankfully meeting Lavender had cast all those thoughts right out of her head. Lavender was warm, funny and loyal. She might have come across as rather vapid and empty-headed at times and certainly she wasn't as smart as the Hermione Grangers of the world, but Parvati couldn't imagine being best friends with anyone else.

Like every witch and wizard who had fought in the war- herself included, Lavender had changed, some ways noticeably, others not so much so. Sometimes Parvati honestly missed the Lavender of old- the gossipy, sentimental witch who'd freely spend hours discussing boys and makeup and which robes were in fashion- but the new Lavender was dedicated, sensible and mature far beyond her years and Parvati appreciated _that_ too. The new Lavender had also been the one to assist Parvati in setting up her new venture- a specialist shop that sold healing crystals, charms and runes- Parvati knew that in a past life, the old Lavender probably would have been far too busy with boys or new robes for such a thing as helping out with a business plan.

Sometimes in a rare moment of girlish wisdom, Lavender joked that Parvati was "channelling Trelawney" by having such a shop, though it was said with fondness of course. Their old Divinations Professor, Sybil Trelawney, along with Hermione Granger had saved Lavender's life at the battle of Hogwarts- preventing that monster from killing her friend- Hermione by casting a spell and Trelawney by dropping a glass orb on his head and stunning him. Parvati had vivid nightmares at the notion of that werewolf clawing at her friend's skin and trying to bite her, so she could only imagine what it must be like for Lavender.

But she didn't talk about it of course. Ever. Sometimes after a particularly trying day at the Ministry, Lavender would apparate here, they'd curl up in Parvati's flat above the shop listening to WWN with a cup of hot chocolate and have a chat- but never about the important things. Never about _why_ Lavender's day had been so hard or why she was so upset about whatever it was. It had been like this for years already and Parvati knew fine well by now that she couldn't push her friend to talk- Lavender might be a brilliant wizard counsellor (sometimes even Parvati was surprised by the career vocation), but she wasn't very good at opening up and helping _herself._

Parvati felt almost relieved as Lavender quickly waved her wand and uncast the glamour spell, her skin slowly returning back to its twisted shape. Her friend had been beautiful before the attack but truthfully, Parvati thought she was prettier now. Like her, Lavender had been somewhat shallow and fixated on appearances back at school- the attack had forced her to look within herself and realise that beauty was only skin deep- what was most important was on the inside. Some things were more important than vanity. Lavender had admitted herself in a moment of honesty, that had she not been attacked, she highly doubted whether she would have moved into a career helping others as she had done. She probably would have moved into a profession such as fashion or brewing perfumes. The aftermath of the awful battle had made Lavender more humble- more introvert as well certainly, but quite possibly a nicer person all around.

"Hot chocolate?" Parvati offered neutrally, wondering if for once she could get the other woman to open up to her and reveal what was really on her mind.

Lavender nodded gratefully, looking exhausted.

Parvati flicked her wand, stealthily locking the shop door. "I have some banana cake my mum sent me if you're interested."

Lavender smiled; "that sounds nice," she agreed in a small voice, following her friend upstairs.

As Parvati waved her wand to light the fire and assemble the hot chocolate and snacks, Lavender bit her lip, watching her friend bustle around her tiny kitchen. It would be so easy to confide in Parvati about what had happened with Oliver Wood, so very easy. Yet somehow, she just couldn't bring herself to confess what had happened- first of all on that awful Friday when he'd clearly been so repulsed by her and then again today when he couldn't even look her in the eye. She'd thought the charm would help ease how uncomfortable her scars had clearly made him feel, but funnily enough it just seemed to have made things worse. She could tell he was on edge around her and didn't know what to do to rectify the situation.

It was surprising that it mattered so much to her what he thought of her, but the truth of the matter was, that Oliver Wood was actually really nice- not at all like she'd been expecting given what she had heard of his reputation, what with him being a sportsman and all. He certainly seemed keen on the training programme too, asking her lots of intelligent questions- and he wasn't as egotistical as she'd expected either, particularly given that he'd been a superstar Quidditch player. He didn't mention Quidditch once all day; Lavender supposed that she _should_ probably ask him about it, given that as a mentor she needed to get to know him better but she found she hadn't wanted to. She didn't understand the game after all and she would probably only make an idiot of herself. She'd already made a big enough fool of herself in front of him as it was. That was why she kept the conversation purely professional- and if it _did_ look like he was ready to jump in with a personal question or instigate a conversation about her, she quickly steered the conversation back to him and the programme.

All in all, the day had been exhausting with them tip-toeing around each other. Tomorrow she knew would be even tougher, for Oliver was due to sit in and watch some of her appointments.

"You look tired," Parvati said now, almost as if she was reading her mind. "Tough day?"

"I'm mentoring Oliver Wood on the new counselling trainee programme," Lavender blurted out entirely before she could stop herself, "and he's positively disgusted by my scars."

She quickly clamped a hand over her wayward mouth- scarcely able to believe the words had even left her lips, as Parvati set down her saucer with a clatter, looking at her in complete dismay.

**…**

_Well that explains__ the glamour charm for starters_, Parvati thought sadly, watching as a visibly upset Lavender tried to control her burgeoning tears.

"He _told_ you he's disgusted?" she asked her slowly, trying to get this straight in her own mind. That didn't sound like something the former Gryffindor would do. Not that she knew Oliver Wood personally of course, only by reputation- but he'd always seemed fairly decent.

"He didn't have to," Lavender insisted as she hugged her knees miserably, her blond hair falling in her face as was second nature to her, shielding her profile. "I saw his expression- last week at the Ministry. It was awful. He backed away from me so fast he nearly fell over."

Parvati sat beside her, placing a hand on her arm comfortingly as Lavender sniffled out the whole sorry tale, including the trying events of today. "So that's the reason you've cast the glamour? Because of the way _he_ looked at you? Lav- that's not like you, I know you get upset by your scars but you usually try not to show that you actually care what people think." She should know- she'd been out to restaurants and pubs with Lavender countless times over the last six years and had seen the way men looked at her- shying away when they caught a cursory glimpse of her scars. Lavender never reacted to them- not visibly anyway, despite the sneers and muttered taunts that invariably came her way.

"I was trying to make HIM more comfortable," Lavender protested valiantly now, "I can't be expected to mentor somebody if they can't even look me in the eye!"

"And did it work?" Parvati prodded softly, already guessing the answer.

Lavender shook her head. "He—well, he seemed a bit confused," she admitted, wiping her eyes.

"Maybe because he'd rather get to know _you_ without the glamour spell," Parvati suggested sensibly wondering if there was more to this that she wasn't picking up on, "he probably feels awful about the way he reacted last week and wanted to make it up to you and---"

"Oliver Wood's used to being around pretty girls," Lavender said with an adamant shake of her head, "he's a Quidditch star after all. Nope, the glamour spell is staying put for now- when I'm at work anyway, though not when I'm consulting with patients of course. He'll get used to the glamour in time and then somehow maybe he'll forget what a monster I really am underneath and he'll be able to get on with the programme. I'd rather he focus on the work than spend all of his time flinching away from my scars. The glamour can help him with that."

"You _aren't_ a monster, Lav!" Parvati protested, aghast that her best friend could ever think of herself like that.

But judging from the look of denial on Lavender's face, that clearly wasn't what _she _thought.

**HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP**

**A/N: **I hope to have the next chapter posted early next week. Please take the time to let me know what you think! I'm seeing lots of hits for this story but not many reviews :(


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